


Scars that Never Felt a Wound

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Fear, Love, Marriage, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5939374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;<br/>Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;<br/>Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:<br/>What is it else? a madness most discreet,<br/>A choking gall and a preserving sweet."</p><p>Juliet's private struggles with love and marriage before the events of the play.<br/>Her parents relationship is one so cold she can't help but wonder...is this the marriage that awaits her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars that Never Felt a Wound

When Juliet was small she would lie back on her bed, staring up at the underside of her canopy and dream about getting married.

She would imagine the mysterious man’s hair colour, his physique, his clothing – everything in ever-changing detail. Never was he named (as his image was so ephemeral) but the idea of this inevitable suitor was branded so strongly on her mind she could hardly imagine life without him.

Others indulged her fantasy – or perhaps it was she who indulged theirs. Nurse prattling on about marriage and husbands, switching from past to present to future in the blink of an eye. Father’s odd comment revolving solely around a critique of posture, or manners – threat of spinster-hood implied. Mother not quite knowing how to fuss over her only daughter but trying.

In later years Juliet would begin to pray not for the arrival of her mystery man, but for his delay. A suitor’s picture filled her with dread; any young man meeting with her father turned her blood to ice, only to thaw again once it was revealed they were not talking of her. Her Nurse’s ramblings – becoming more lewd by the year – still gave her wistful thoughts, but not for long. Trepidation would drown the fancies just as fast as they had sprung to mind.

If she presses herself to think of reasons why wedding bells make her head spin, she might tell herself it’s only nerves, the fear of change. But in the dead of night, when sleep eludes her, little memories creep in, her being too weary for denial.

Overhearing servants gossiping about the Lord and Lady of the house; how they sleep in separate beds, how barely a good-morning passes between them, how his eyes wander, and hers grow duller. How not even Juliet could rekindle what is was they once had – if anything it drove them farther into stale uncertainty. How he wasn’t even there at her birth.  
Gingerly they take each other’s arms in public, lend courteous smiles on the other’s behalf but within the walls of their own home nary a glance is shared if it can be helped.

To the rescue of these fearful thoughts comes tales from her Nurse, story on story about a boisterous and fulfilling married life, faces creased with laughter lines in the place of wrinkles. But too soon is the husband taken away to join his infant daughter in heaven leaving his widow behind with nothing but nostalgia to warm her heart.

These are the recollections that plague Juliet when she can find it in herself to face the quiet halls of her house, and the taciturn meals at distant ends of the dining table. There is no unseeing the disappointment in eye contact Lord and Lady Capulet refuse to make. It is as though they only remind each other of their age.

Juliet cannot help but feel she should not pity her parents, though in her heart of hearts she does.

Trapped within her perfectly held posture, and demure façade sometimes she feels a hopeful passion. Bright, and fresh, and barely contained. A spark, waiting to ignite something, someone. The more empty her house feels, the more difficult her spark is to ignore. Like a star, laughably small but strong; ready to revive what she will not let her parents kill.

And yet

A fight as bitter as the one between her house and the Montague’s rages: Her star vs. the dread that subdues it. Walls of presumed reality hold captive her will to love.

Walking down an aisle, marriage sealed with a ball and chain. Fading into matrimonial obscurity, a fraction of a woman, no more substance than a ghost. Seated so far away from an indifferent husband he seems unreachable as the horizon.

Even if it is a joyful union, who is to say it will last? How many days before a bad heart, or a runaway carriage, or a bump on the head turns your life to ashes? Left as alone as you would be married to a figurehead who never speaks your name.

Perspectives twisting, flipping, whirling around in her head eventually quiet as she drifts off, able to push them down upon waking the next morning; where she waits for a sign that it is safe to love.

**Author's Note:**

> The Capulets are super interesting.  
> Kind of thought it might be neat to explore how Juliet saw love before meeting Romeo. We get to see him mope about, why not her?
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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